Into the Fire
by Varia Lectio
Summary: AU. What if Gollum had not betrayed Sam and Frodo? Who then would pay the ultimate price to defeat Evil?


Into The Fire

Rating: PG, for several deaths.

Summary: AU fiction for Return Of The King. What might have happened if what Tolkien called his most tragic scene in LOTR gone differently. But someone will always have to pay the ultimate price to forever destroy the evil Ring. No slash.

Thanks: Betaing thanks goes to Araniell, elaryn, and Alma Geddon.

A partial inspiration for the premise of this fic is Ariel's excellent one-shot "In The Dark", which can be found at my story is in no way connected to hers.

"Nice master."

The voice was a thin, halting whisper. Gollum, who had been called Smeagol in his youth, reached out, and touched his master's knee. The touch was almost a caress, hesitant at first, but then more decisive, and tender.

The two hobbits stirred, but did not awake, so deep was their sleep. He sighed, and something dark seemed to leave him. He bowed his head, and then wandered off a short distance from his master and the other hobbit.

"Done, finished," he whispered hoarsely. "We--we--no, I--leads them through Her lair, yes. No trickeses. None. Done."

His hands clenched, and a tremor ran through his thin, exhausted frame, but his will did not waver. He was surprised at this, and silently vowed within himself to keep his word. He swallowed harshly, then looked over again at his two companions--once his captors, yes. But Master, at least, was good to him. . .

Still asleep.

"Done, finished." He laid down, and slept.

An hour or so later, Frodo Baggins awoke. He gently pulled free from Sam's embrace, and gained his feet. His joints were sore and stiff from resting on the hard earth, and even a few hours' sleep did nothing for his weariness.

He rubbed at his eyes, then looked about. Where was their guide?

He moved away from Sam and squinted at a little lump on a flat rock some yards away. There, curled up on his own spot of stone, was Smeagol. His thin arms were wrapped about his torso, as if for warmth, and his chin was tucked against his chest. Frodo could not see his face from this angle, but the slow, even movement of their guide's chest indicated that he was sleeping deeply, and not merely feigning slumber.

Dimly, Frodo was aware of Samwise awakening and coming over to stand beside him. They stood for a few more moments of silence, each watching Smeagol; each with his own thoughts.

At last Frodo said, "He looks so peaceful. I almost haven't the heart to wake him."

Sam turned his eyes to the sky. There was a pale light in the East as the sun rose. "Dawn's here, Mister Frodo. Heart or not, we'd best be going." He looked down again at the sleeping form. "I'm surprised Gollumhere hasn't told us that already."

Frodo nodded, and went to wake their guide.

"This is the way in. This is the entrance to the tunnel."

Smeagol's voice was low, yet clear, and Frodo wondered at that as he looked at his guide. Smeagol's gaze shifted over to meet Frodo's; he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and his thin pallid tongue wiped over his lips. "Very dark in there, very much. No light at all from the Yellow Face; nor does the White Face reach into there at night. Hobbits still have the--" he shuddered-- "nassty Elvish rope?"

"I've got it," Sam volunteered, taking the rope out and beginning to uncoil it. He cast a swift glance at their guide. "What's in your plan for usin' it, Gollum?"

Smeagol hissed. "Not him! Not that name! Smeagol!"

Sam held up his hands, the rope lying momentarily forgotten on the ground. "Smeagol, then. What's the rope for, Smeagol?"

Smeagol's eyes flashed with a greenish light for a moment, then he bowed his head and said nothing for a while. His breathing could be heard, however, and the sound of it was harsh.

Sam stood still, his sense of puzzlement over the depth of his error giving way to suspicion and fear. Who knew what'd set this creature off? Best not to trust him at all; you never knew when Slinker would win out over Stinker. The difference between the two was in degrees, as far as Samwise Gamgee was concerned, and a tiny number of degrees, at that.

Frodo, however, reached out and touched Smeagol's thin shoulder. It was a light, hesitant touch at first, but when it was not shrugged off, Frodo squeezed the shoulder gently. Smeagol looked up. The bitterness in his eyes was plain, and when he spoke, his tone reflected that expression perfectly.

"Gollum, gollum! Gollum that, Gollum this! That's nice fat hobbit's name for me!"

"No," Frodo said quietly. "Your true name is Smeagol, and I know this as well as you."

Smeagol fell silent, looking at the ground. After some time he spoke again. "Nice master, good master." There was a catching pause in the worn, rasping voice, then he added in a calmer tone then before, "Take nasty rope; put each end 'round your waists. Link yourselves together. Smeagol can't stand the rope; it bites and freezes!" He shivered dramatically and mimed tying an imaginary length of rope around his own scrawny waist.

As Frodo and Sam did so, their guide added, "Tie it tight; no loose knots! Hobbits do not want to be lost inside the cave..."

Sam looked up sharply at this, but he bit his tongue, not wanting the creature's mercurial moods to impede their journey any further.

Smeagol checked each of their knots, and seemed to look over Frodo's with especially exacting care. "Nice and tight, hobbits," he said, nodding to himself. "Now for the secret passage." He scrambled up to the cave's entrance, then he paused. "Come up, hobbits, come up."

Frodo took the lead.

Smeagol reached out for him with one withered, long-fingered hand. "Take hold, Master. Trust good Smeagol. Trust him."

Frodo looked at the outstretched hand, hesitating at the last. Long had this creature been mired in evil, lusting for his 'Precious', and Frodo knew better than Sam did as to how closely and bitterly the war between 'Gollum' and 'Smeagol' had raged inside his guide's mind. He felt as though he were balanced upon the edge of a knife; the sensation was not unusual, but now he knew that to deny Smeagol his trust would be to ultimately undo what he had labored for: the redemption of this pitiful slave, and the destruction of the Ring.

He looked into Smeagol's eyes again, and Frodo found that there seemed to be some new light contained in their expression. It was not the hint of treachery that he discerned; it was something else entirely, as though Smeagol's long inner conflict had been finally put to rest.

He reached out and put his hand in Smeagol's. "I trust you."

The long, bony fingers tightened their hold around Frodo's, and they both knew then that Smeagol would not let go, even in this dark place, with the Ring so close.

Smeagol headed into the darkness, and the hobbits followed.

No words were spoken between the three; no words were needed. A gnawing dread as thick as the utter darkness of the cavern surrounded them, and the unmoving air was fetid and choking. Its stench brought the sour taste of bile to the backs of the three travellers' mouths when they inhaled, and left a similarly foul aftertaste when they exhaled.

Frodo's palms were slick with sweat, for the nameless fear was growing in his mind, and seemed almost ready to take shape, so close was the source of it. . . He tightened his grip on Smeagol's hand, and felt the thin, sinewy fingers tighten in turn.

Sam stumbled. A little stone rolled across the cavern's floor, making sharp, clipped sounds as it tumbled, and Sam's bitten-back cry of pain echoed just as sharply off of the unseen walls and ceiling. The rope went taut, and Frodo felt a hard tug at his waist from behind. Smeagol's grip on his hand was wrenched nearly away; all Frodo could feel for a moment was the merest brush of his guide's fingertips.

Frodo wanted to scream. The blackness pressed in, as if it were a predator come to claim its prey, and he wondered madly if something had plucked his eyes from his head, for they were no use in this place. . . He resisted the urge to claw at his face with his hands, to see if his eyes were still in their sockets. . .

His grip on Smeagol's hand was broken then, and Frodo's last breath choked in his throat.

A hissing close by him. "Master! Nice Master!" A thin hand flailed out, smacked lightly against Frodo's sleeve. He groped out for it. "Nice master shouldn't move; let Smeagol find him. . ." The familiar voice was slightly breathless, as if from fear; it also carried a noticeable tinge of annoyance. The hand grabbed hold of Frodo's, once again.

Frodo's breathing slowed. "Sam?" he called softly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mister Frodo," came the chagrined reply, and Frodo felt himself smile. "Just took a little fall. I'm fine."

"Let's go on," Smeagol whispered. He sniffed loudly. "Air smells nicer over here."

Again he led the way through the impenetrable black, and the hobbits followed.

Samwise, bringing up the tail-end of the party, dared to take a sniff of the air, and found that it was indeed as their guide had said. He resisted the urge to comment on this. His face still felt warm; here he had been, thinking that Stinker-Slinker would be leading them into a trap, and he, Samwise, had been the one that had nearly sent the three of them into darkness, lost! Well, he and Frodo were linked at the waist (as Smeagol had suggested, he thought again), but without their guide, they could wander forever in this pit and never see the light of day again.

Sam was forced to admit, even only to himself, that Gollum had saved them. He hadn't abandoned them; he hadn't grabbed the Ring from its chain and ran for some secret exit that only he knew of. Sam had been expecting that; had been expecting it ever since the creature had been sworn to their service. . .

Yet it hadn't happened. The workings of Sam's mind-- full of sharp and stark appraisals and judgments-- began to turn as they considered this extraordinary, unhoped-for-thing: the fact of Gollum's loyalty.

Maybe Frodo's words had had an effect on Stinker-Slinker's mind after all. . .

He was blinded by a sudden shaft of light.

Sam cried out again, and flung up both hands. He could hear Gollum hiss and Frodo gasp. Behind the shield of his fingers, Sam dared to look into the light.

It was a simple beam of sunlight, that had filtered down into the cavern from a crack in the rocks-- a crack wide enough to squeeze a thinnish hobbit through. Sam felt his waist-- which felt slimmer than he'd ever known it to be before-- and thought that he could fit through there.

And if he could manage it, Stinker-- no, Smeagol, Sam reminded himself-- certainly could do it.

Smeagol knew this as well. Still squinting and blinking back tears of pain, Sam saw their guide crawl up a heaped up pile of rubble and loose pebbles, straight up to the opening. In the light of the sun, Frodo released Smeagol's hand at last, and put his two hands to the heap as he began to crawl after their guide.

Smeagol slipped out of the crack, muttering something about the touch of the Yellow Face and how hot it seemed after the long darkness, and then he stuck his head and one arm back down to Frodo, who reached out gratefully and took the proffered hand. Smeagol tugged hard, rearing back on tensed legs, and Frodo came up into the light, then Sam... and both hobbits slid down a steep incline in the rocky earth outside.

Smeagol slid, grabbing hold of Frodo's worn coat to steady him. The three of them slid to a halt, falling onto a large flat ledge of hard, weathered rock, and Smeagol hissed with pain.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, and then saw to Mister Frodo. The other hobbit had taken a harder tumble, and Sam's ruddy, dirt-smeared face blanched as he saw a bright trail of blood threading its way through Frodo's hair. The blood ran and spilled down his brow, dripping to his cheek and lips.

"Frodo! Mister Frodo!" Sam cried, heart hammering with terror. Frodo groaned, and his right hand groped for the chain around his neck.

Frodo's shaking fingers curled around the Ring. He looked up at Sam, and his eyes were glazed, unfocused-- as though Frodo did not recognize him.

"Away, Sam," he said in a rasping voice. His grip on the Ring tightened.

Heedless, Sam reached out to grip Frodo's shoulder to steady him. "Let me take a look at that, Mister Frodo. You're hurt; you've got a great cut on your scalp. Let

me--"

**_"Away!" _**Frodo's shout was filled with anger and fear. The Ringbearer backed away from Sam, his eyes wide and frenzied, his mouth twisted into a snarl. Both hands were clenched around the Ring.

Staring at Frodo, Sam became aware of a throbbing pain in his own mouth, and the bitter taste of iron on his tongue; blood dripped from a corner of his lips. One of his teeth was loose.

Smeagol came up to Frodo, and Sam saw that their guide was bruised and battered, as well. Wiping at a bleeding scrape on his cheek, Smeagol gripped Frodo's shoulder, whispering, "Master, master; nice hobbit..."

Frodo staggered back, breathing hard, his eyes flickering from Sam to Smeagol, back and forth. Slowly, the tenseness in his shoulders faded, and his breathing slowed. The look of an evil dream faded from his eyes, and the Ring swung free on its chain as his hands dropped to his sides.

Sam shaded his eyes and glanced up at the sky. It now looked dark and brooding, just as all days seemed in Mordor. The sunlight barely managed to shine through the thick layers of grey clouds, and Sam wondered at how blinding its light had seemed a few moments ago.

_When you're in the darkest night, any light seems all the brighter because of it, _he thought, and reaching out, he grasped Frodo's arm and leaned in to look at the gash in his scalp.

The wound looked horrific, but it turned out to be merely a shallow cut. Sam wished that he could clean and cover the wound, but their ragged clothes were too filthy to be used as a bandage, and what little water they had could not spared for anything other than drinking.

"Well, Mister Frodo, we're out of the dark, thanks to Smeagol here," Sam said, turning and smiling at their guide in what he hoped was a friendly fashion. Smeagol blinked his large eyes at Sam, apparently not understanding the expression for a moment, then his own withered lips stretched into a wan grin in response.

"Do you think that we should rest, Smeagol, or shall we go on?"

Smeagol paused, considering. "Orcses don't lurk 'round here; not mostly. They don't know about the safe pass through. . . Hobbits must stay out of sight, though. Yes. . . Hobbits hide behind the rocks, lie down and sleep. Smeagol will watch and guard, yes."

Frodo sighed. "Very well." He tucked the Ring back under his shirt's collar, and allowed Sam to lead him to a rock where the two could sleep in its shadow.

When Frodo laid down, he looked to Sam and asked softly, "It was the Ring's spell, wasn't it, Sam? Just then, when I told you to back away?"

Sam rolled over on his back and pulled his Elven cloak over himself. He gave his master a sober glance, then looked away. "Yes, Mister Frodo. You were holding the Ring as though I was tryin' to take it away-- as though I were an orc or some other foul creature."

Frodo shook his head slowly. His fingers brushed his head wound, then moved down to the Ring on its chain. When he spoke, his voice was slow and halting. "I-- I don't know, Sam. I-- might have thought that you were an orc for a moment. Strange spells-- strange visions. Its hold upon me is tightening-- I can feel it like a noose around my neck, pulling me down-- pinning me to the earth so I can become an easy prey for the Nazgul. . . " His hand slid from the Ring to the old scar on his shoulder. "I can feel their eyes and their thoughts too... sometimes I hear the words in their terrible cries-- they speak only of pain and damnation and of the torment of the Eye's gaze. They feel it themselves-- feel it stripping them bare of all that they are and all that they think--" He choked on some phlegm, spat it up and out, then added, "I can hear the Ring sometimes as well, Samwise. Did you know that?"

"No, Mister Frodo, I didn't."

Frodo looked back at his friend's horrified face. He smiled, and the peculiarly stretched expression, framed by dried blood, was a hideous one.

"I hear it speaking to me. You may not believe that the Ring can speak, Sam, but it can, and it hears everything--even what we are speaking about right now. It is far, far wiser than you or I."

Sam stared at the chain around his master's neck. The Ring lay hidden behind the ragged folds of Frodo's shirt collar.

"It'd be best not to tell It too much then, Mister Frodo," he said. "Smeagol's keeping watch for us now-- best if you get some sleep."

Frodo laid his head down on the ground. His eyelids closed. "You trust Smeagol now?"

Sam snorted softly. "I'm not quite certain, Mister Frodo, but I'll agree that with you that he hasn't run out on us yet, and that counts in my book. Maybe you're right; maybe he will change."

"He will," Frodo said hollowly. "It is I who am changing. The Ring has abandoned Smeagol-- it has no use for him. It's me whom it wants. And I fear that it will take me in the end."

"Don't you worry about that, Mister Frodo. I won't let it twist you."

Frodo smiled, his eyes still closed. "You can't stop it. Neither can I."

Sam did not reply. Frodo's breathing soon became deep and even, and Sam looked away from his master, to see a thin, pale form sitting on a rock not too far away.

With Smeagol keeping watch, Sam closed his eyes as well, and slept.

As soon as Sam had closed his eyes, it seemed, Smeagol woke him. The thin creature pawed at his shoulder and hissed in his ear, "Wake up, sleepy-head. Dawn is nearly here; we must go."

Sam slowly sat up, rubbing at his eyes. The brooding sky looked much the same as before, and he found it hard to believe that Smeagol had let them sleep through the night. "Did you see any orcs, Smeagol?"

Smeagol shook his head. "No, no; none. Orcses mostly stay up in their tower, or they patrol the caverns. Orcses don't know we're here on this side, good hobbit."

"All for the best, then," Sam said, looking out to the desolate plain that they would have to cross to reach Mount Doom. He sighed. "Care for some breakfast, Smeagol? All we have is lembas bread and some dry fruit, which I know that you don't care for--"

Smeagol coughed. "Nassty bread! It smells! Sticks in our throat like the dusst! Yech!"

"As you will," Sam replied. "But I'd like to see you find anything else to gnaw on, Smeagol. . ."

The creature smiled unctuously at him. "Smeagol will manage, nice hobbit; yes he will."

Sam went over to Frodo. He was surprised to find that the older hobbit was already awake, and from the look of the dark half-circles under Frodo's eyes, it looked as if he had barely gotten any sleep last night.

"Mister Frodo? Smeagol says we should be movin' on now." He sat down beside Frodo and placed a hand on his shoulder when the other did not respond. "I think it's best if we follow his advice. Here--" Sam reached into his pack, and retrieved a leaf-wrapped bundle of lembas bread and their skin of water. "Either this, or the dried fruit that Captain Faramir gave us. . . Mister Frodo?"

Frodo looked at him.

""Haven't you slept, Frodo?"

The other hobbit shook his head. The dried blood on his scalp and face was crusted a dark reddish-brown, and Sam saw gummy, yellowish secretions at the corners of Frodo's eyes. "No, Sam, not much. The Ring...its voice woke me. It was speaking to me, telling me things...terrible things. I could almost see the Dark Lord on his throne, deep in the Barad-dur--I could hear the voices of the Nazgul, almost; could understand the fearful things they said--I saw the dungeons of Barad-dur, saw their Lieutenant inflicting the cruelest tortures on those trapped within--" Frodo looked up at Sam with an almost frenzied gleam in his eyes. "There is no hope for us, Sam. The Ring has told me that."

Sam took his master's hands in his, and clutched them to his breast. They felt cold and lifeless. "There's always hope, Mister Frodo. Here, take some bread and water; they'll make you feel better."

Reluctantly, Frodo ate some lembas bread, and drank from the skin of water, and Sam was heartened to see a bit of healthy color return to his master's cheeks. It seemed that the lembas still retained a bit of their restorative, life-giving power, even in this black, dead land.

Sam arranged the folds of the Elf-cloak on his master's shoulders, and put the walking-staff that Faramir had given them into his hand.

"Now, let's be off," he said.

Several days later, three crouching figures entered into the hewn chamber of Mount Doom.

Frodo staggered ahead. The Ring, clutched tight in his grimy fist, seemed to burn into the skin of his palm as he moved closer to the fire that had forged it. With every step, he could feel its heat searing his flesh black, burning down to the very sinews and bones. The Ring, as if in desperate mockery of his intent to cast it into the fire, was pressing him to release it from his tightly clenched fist._ Release me,_ it seemed to whisper, _Release me, and I will grant you a release in turn. Let me go; slip me onto your finger-- is that not where I should be? I can give you a reprieve from your sufferings; from your thirst, your hunger, your pains and your aches. Can you not feel them? _

Indeed, he did feel them, and a thousand times more intensely than ever before. His throat was dry, his lips cracked and bloody. His eyes felt as though the dust of Mordor had scraped all tears away, forever. His stomach had been empty for some time now. He could not recall when he had last eaten.

_Let me go, _the Ring whispered. _Let me go. You wish to slip me onto your finger, do you not? Do this, and be free. Do this now. Take me as your own. Now. _

A vision came before his eyes. He tried to blink it away, but it would not leave his sight. He saw himself commanding the Wraiths on their winged steeds, speaking in a voice of thunder, terrifying those around him with his power. The One Ring blazed like a wheel of fire on his finger.

In mute denial, he shook his head, attempting to drive the voice and the temptation away. Yet second by second, the voice became louder, more demanding, more insistent, and the vision became stronger.

He was in the heart of the chamber now, and his unsteady feet stumbled on the darkened path. He could see nothing ahead; all around there was a blackness that burned red as blood in spasmodic flashes. The air seemed to writhe with the flashes; it shimmered before him, twisting, glowing, burning. He could hear nothing, save for the blood pounding in his ears and the dim scrape of his blistered feet on the rocky ground.

Temptation-- that urge, that longing, to wear the Ring and claim it as his own, had reached its boiling point. It could no longer be ignored. It could no longer be thrust to the far recesses of his mind.

No, the wheel of fire was before him again now, blazing hotter and brighter than the lava that splashed up from the gash in the black rocks. The molten rock lashed at the precipice upon which he stood, like the waves of the sea upon an island's rocky shore.

The heat rose up to meet his face, bringing with it the hard smell of burning stone and molten ore. Sweat rolled down his cheeks and brow, moistened his dry lips. Almost instantly it was vaporized, and Frodo was left parched and trembling again.

It took him several long moments to realize that he was holding the Ring before his eyes. It swung slowly on Its chain, and he touched it, ever so gently, with a finger. So small; so beautiful. . .

His Precious. His, and no one else's. The Ring could be his... _would_ be his, had he the strength to claim it.

There was a last moment of hesitation. . .

The molten rock licked at the precipice upon which he stood, like the waves of the ocean upon the rocky shore of a distant island far out to Sea, and for a moment, Frodo was granted a new vision. It did not come from the Ring, whose poisonous whispers were suddenly pushed to the recesses of his mind; nor did it come from himself.

It was a gift, perhaps, from the Lords of the West, as they looked upon this small, stubborn creature struggling at the cliff's edge, needing only the courage to sacrifice himself, or else let the Ring gain control at last. . .

As he stood, Frodo could feel cool salt-sprays on his face from a sea he had never seen; he saw the sun setting in the West, and light shining on the waves. He saw the sky painted in hues of red and gold and purple, and he heard the cries of the white gulls as they flew over the sea, gliding alongside the bows of grey-hulled ships, traveling into the West.

If he could lean forward, he would be bathed in the waters of the sea; all his wounds would be washed clean with salt, and his cares would be gone from him at last.

He leaned forward, and did not feel the heat of the lava as he fell.

Samwise squinted desperately against the haze of smoke and heat in the suffocating chamber. There was a deep rumble beneath his feet; the earth seemed to groan painfully. Red flashes of light shot up like the point of a stabbing spear, highlighting the insides of the chamber that was burrowed into the heart of Mount Doom.

Through waves of heat, he could dimly make out the form of his master. Frodo stood still, a little ways from the edge of the precipice; a little ways from the seething, rising lava. _Why isn't he moving?' _Sam wondered.

Suddenly, Frodo's body twisted, as if he were in pain. He fell to his knees. Behind Sam, Smeagol came up, panting from the heat. "What's master doing?"

Sam ignored the query. "Frodo!" he shouted, running for his master. If Frodo couldn't do it, if he couldn't throw the accursed Ring in, even at the last moment. . .

Frodo lurched to his feet, and with a sudden desperate lunge, he darted to the very edge of the cliff, leaning out over the roaring cauldron of fire. His face, marked though it was with grime and cuts and a gnawing despair, held a strange look of peace as he fell silently over the edge.

Sam screamed.

_"MASTER!"_

That cry was Smeagol's; only seconds too late, he reached the spot where Frodo had stood.

Still crying out, Sam fell to the ground. Magma boiled up, splashing the walls of the chamber. Steam hissed, and fresh tremors shook the earth. Stone crumbled into powder. The chamber was collapsing in onto itself.

Sam was not sure whether he wished to flee or not. Frodo. . . He was gone. What purpose did Samwise the Brave now serve?

Through the veils of smoke and heat, he could see Smeagol flailing and floundering at the cliff's end, choking on the smoke, unable to move.

Through the roar of destruction, Sam could hear Smeagol crying out, "Master! Master, we are blind! We can't see, master; we can't see and the heat burneses us! Master!"

At the last desperate plea, Sam arose. As the ground split and shifted beneath his feet, he rushed to Smeagol's side and grabbed him under the arms. Lifting him up, Sam ran back the way they'd come in, and managed to escape just as the chamber and its entrance collapsed into rubble.

Smeagol coughed weakly in Sam's ears as the hobbit made his way down the rocky slopes of Mount Doom. Blazing rivers of lava raced down around them, cracking the dry soil. Ash rained down and darkened the light of the sun. Soon, not even Sam could see his way, and the fire-heat of the lava was all around him.

At last, he managed to crawl up to a rocky outcropping's point. There, they would be safe from the lava, if only for a few moments more. Soon, death would overtake them both, and Sam wondered again if there was any point in delaying the inevitable, so crushed was his spirit.

Sam laid his living burden down onto the rock, and looked over at Smeagol. The Ring-enslaved creature was emaciated and feeble-looking; his breathing was labored and slow, and Sam knew that it was not because of the soot in the air. Whatever strength Gollum-- no, Smeagol-- had once possessed was long gone, destroyed in the fires along with the Ring, and now only death awaited him.

Smeagol looked about, his eyes clouded and unfocused. "Can't see, precious, can't see," he croaked. "Is blind." He panted weakly, and Sam found himself suddenly wishing that he had a drop of water, if only that, to give to him.

"I know, Smeagol. I know," Sam replied hoarsely, wishing that he dared to close his own eyes against the sight of the streaming lava and the smoke-blackened sky. "Best that you don't see it, really."

"The Precious... is gone. . ."

Sam closed his eyes, and wished that he hadn't. All he could see when he did so was the image of Frodo disappearing from sight as he dropped soundlessly over the edge. He opened them again, and wiped away tears. "I know."

"Gollum...he is gone, too. Gone with the Precious." Smeagol coughed again, shaking as though gripped by an ague, and Sam looked over at him again, in surprise this time. "And Master...Baggins, as well. We--I--misses him, precious..." Flecks of blood came up with the next choking exhalation, and gummy tears dripped from the blind eyes.

Samwise gripped Smeagol's shoulder, tears running freely down his own cheeks.

"Nice master. . . " The words were a thin whisper of sound, and then Smeagol spoke no more.

Sam, exhausted and beaten at the last, lay back on the rock and waited for the lava to consume him as it had Frodo. Dazed, half-conscious, he did not see the shapes of the great Eagles--"Mister Bilbo's Eagles"--coming down from the clouds of the unsullied western horizon.

Swooping down, the great Eagles plucked up two bodies from the rocky ledge-- but only one of them still lived.

The End.


End file.
